


Your Name Fits In My Heart

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, DD S3, Daredevil Bingo, Daredevil Exchange New Years 2020, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kinda, Reunions, Whump, i think, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou
Summary: "I’m sorry, have we met?" Claire eventually asks, when the silence stretches for an uncomfortably long moment. The woman continues to stare at her with a sharp eye, as if assessing for something.Finally the woman meets Claire’s eyes again and gives her the barest of smiles, one that is nearly recognizable if not for the fact that it is completely out of context to the ones her brain is attempting to compare it against. And maybe it’s not this woman’s face which is familiar at all, but someone else’s entirely. One with brown eyes, a sharp chin, and a near-permanently furrowed brow. One Claire has seen countless times and which her brain is (very unhelpfully) calling up and reflecting onto the face of this stranger for reasons which Claire does not know but which make her want to scream. ---Or, the one where Claire finds out Matt is alive in the church post Defenders and is recruited to help him recover.Written for DowneyStarkJr for 2020 New Years Daredevil Exchange.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Claire Temple
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52
Collections: DDE’s 2020 New Year’s Day Exchange, Daredevil Bingo





	Your Name Fits In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Created for DowneyStarkJr for the 2020 New Years Daredevil Exchange with the following prompt: Similar to Season 3 where Matt is recovering in the orphanage/church. But Claire discovers he is there and alive and helps in his recovery - angst, emotion and fluff would be perfect.
> 
> Also fulfills my “whump” square for Daredevil Bingo. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Sorry it's late! I’ve also never written this pair before (strangely enough) so I hope I’ve done them justice. Happy New Year!

At this point in her life, Claire Temple isn’t entirely sure what she thinks about the ontological concept of fate, though she supposes it’s getting increasingly harder to ignore the possibility, especially given the current circumstances. She still can’t explain why she picked this particular church. Clinton Church. ( _His_ church, if she remembers his stories right.) Or, to be more specific, why she even picked a church at all. She was raised like a good little Catholic girl, just like all the other Latinx boys and girls on her block, like her mother and father before her, and their parents before them. But to say that her faith has lapsed recently is to put it mildly; she’s had a crisis of conscious and faith strong enough to keep her from attending mass in longer than she can remember. Somehow, though, she’d suddenly felt called to go to mass. Something in her heart had suddenly compelled her to return to the kind of holy place she had once found comforting but which she recently found suffocating and hollow. But there had been something different about this church from the moment she imagined it in her mind and made the plan to go. Maybe it was her sentimental side, maybe it was a bit of additional grief working its way out of her subconscious to the surface, or maybe it was just completely random chance. The longer she thinks about it as she walks the blocks to the not quite familiar but not entirely unfamiliar place, the more it seems like something intentional. Planned. Or at the very least fated. 

And thus it seems doubly so when, after having attended morning mass, she pauses in the narthex just long enough to light a candle and say a prayer of mourning under her breath, asking God to bless and watch over Matt, wherever in the after or next life he might be. When she finishes, she opens her eyes and looks up to notice the weight of a gaze on her and turns slightly to identify the source. She is met with the piercing and hauntingly familiar if inscrutable stare of a woman, clad in the black of a nun’s habit, wooden rosary dangling from her neck.

Claire blinks in the expectant woman’s face, unsettled and yet simultaneously convinced she has seen her face before. Or if not _her_ face, one oddly similar …

“I’m sorry, have we met?” Claire eventually asks, when the silence stretches for an uncomfortably long moment. The woman continues to stare at her with a sharp eye, as if assessing for something.

Finally the woman meets Claire’s eyes again and gives her the barest of smiles, one that is nearly recognizable if not for the fact that it is completely out of context to the ones her brain is attempting to compare it against, and therefore, more inscrutable than the last expression. And maybe it’s not this woman’s face which is familiar at all, but someone else’s entirely, one Claire has seen countless times and which her brain is (very unhelpfully) calling up and reflecting onto the face of this stranger for reasons which Claire does not know but which make her want to scream.

_Those chocolate brown eyes and that stubbled, angular jaw with a perpetually bloody lip—_

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s simply that I believe I know who you are. I’ve seen your name and face in the papers recently in relation to all that hubbub with the Midland Circle business. You’re Claire Temple, and I believe I read somewhere that you used to be a nurse. Is that correct?”

All Claire can do for a moment is blink. Thanks to Jessica’s radio personality friend Trish, they’d all received more acclaim and coverage after the event than anyone had been expecting. Claire had a few people notice her and make a big deal out of meeting her right after everything had happened, but that had been a couple of weeks ago, when she was with other members of the group. Luke and Danny are much easier to pick out of a crowd after all, and she had been a kind of collateral damage in the frenzy which had swept them up. She still isn’t accustomed to people picking her out of a crowd on her own.

“Uh... yeah. That’s right. I did. I guess I still am, in a way. After all, someone’s gotta keep those super-idiots from getting too banged up. Lucky me,” she says, with a shrug and a healthy dose of sarcasm. 

The nun moves a few steps closer, inclining her head as if to share a secret and subconsciously Claire finds herself mirroring the gesture. Something itches at the back of her mind because the similarities are subtle and small but the way the woman carries herself and her stature and the shape of her jaw- it all feels so familiar to Claire, like she’s _done it before_. Not here, not with this woman, but with someone else, someone who apparently reminds her of this woman but whom she just won’t allow herself to think of—

“Well, I am very happy to hear that, Ms. Temple, as I believe I know of one such ‘super-idiot’ who is in desperate need of your help,” the woman says, voice low and face grave. 

Instinctively, Matt’s face flashes in her head at the woman’s plea, in all of the many battered and bruised forms she’s seen him, and her heart drops to her stomach a beat later as she remembers that it’s impossible for him to be the person to which this woman is referring. That’s why she’s here, after all— paying her respects in the place he grew up and spent so much time as a child. Trying to offer him (and herself) a modicum of peace in this one small, hopefully not empty gesture. She prays it will allow her to finally get his face out her head at night when it’s quiet (or as quiet as the city ever gets) and she’s trying to sleep, but failing as she thinks about all the things she wishes she could have done differently if she just would have known what was coming. She doesn’t sleep much these days, and she doesn’t think she’s in the mood to take on any other lost causes at the moment. Doesn’t know if her heart can take it.

Remembering herself, Claire shakes her head in response. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but my hands are a little full right now. I think I’ve taken in just about as many ‘gifted’ individuals as I can handle. But I appreciate it. And I know some other people who might be willing to help. I can get you their inf—”

The woman steps forward, insistent and unwilling to be brushed off as Claire tries to step back. “You misunderstand. This is not a new patient, as it were, but rather … a returning patient. One you might have been missing as of late.” 

That damnable smug, inscrutable smile is back on the older woman’s face and Claire takes a second to breathe through the blasphemous thought of slapping a nun (in a _church_ of all places), but as soon as she does, it all clicks. Because, whether by divine intervention, or a strange twist of fate, or a mystery of science, she recognizes the face she has been staring into all this time as one that reminds her of _Matt_. And who is the only “patient” that’s she’s ever missed except for him? She knows it doesn’t make sense, but she also somehow knows that it’s true as soon as she looks up to meet the woman’s gaze. 

“He’s… he’s here?” Claire asks. Her voice creaks on a strangled inhale, for she is too afraid to breathe, terrified that if she so much as flinches, the magic of this moment will evaporate and whatever trick of fate or space-time which has allowed her this possible reprieve will disappear. 

At this, the woman smiles all radiant and sun-bright, and if Claire didn’t sense a connection between this nun and everyone’s favorite devil affiliated vigilante before, she’d have to be willfully ignorant to not see it now.

Without missing another beat, the woman turns on her heel and heads off into the depths of the church. Claire follows behind a second later, working hard to modulate her breathing as the woman leads her through a series of hallways and walkways that eventually spit them out into the orphanage. Looking over her shoulder intently, the woman turns down one last hallway to stop at a silent, sunlit room full of beds, all of which are empty, save one. Claire’s heart stops when she sees him, stripped down to a pair of gray sweat pants, bandages wrapped around his torso. Out of habit, she immediately begins to catalog his wounds and assess his condition, and she is pleased to see that while he is still bruised and cut up, his wounds have been tended to, even the little nicks and cuts on his face and the skin of his upper body. Whoever has been caring for him has done so with a tremendous amount of love if a small amount of training. Tears well in her eyes and she has to look at the nun beside her to keep them from falling. “How long has he been like this?”

“We’ve had him for a couple of weeks now, ever since a Good Samaritan found him on the pier. Said it looked as though he must have washed out of a drain pipe of all things. That was several days after building collapsed. He’s been in and out of consciousness since then, but I believe he’s through the worst of it now. I hope so, anyway. We’ve done all we can for him, but we don’t have the training you do. Maybe with your help, he’ll be able to fully recover.”

Claire just nods and sighs, biting the inside of her lip because she doesn’t want to cry. She can’t allow herself to get worked up right now if she’s going to be in any kind of shape to take care of him. And God knows he needs all the help he can get. She gets the inkling again that maybe it was more than random chance which brought her to this place today, but for once, the thought doesn’t chafe at her.

———————

It takes precisely three days for her to become somewhat of a fixture in the orphanage- for the children to build a rapport with her, and for the other sisters to develop a deep if somewhat pitying respect for her. They even make a little make-shift guest-room for her, directly under the chapel. She hasn’t worked up the courage to sleep there and away from Matt for a full night, but she has found it’s been nice to catch periodic rest there while taking a few nap breaks on and off during the day. And all the while Sister Maggie (as she has learned the woman is called), seems to stand just out of sight, always on the periphery, watching for news and updates, but never so close as to allow Claire to engage her in any kind of conversation. Perhaps it’s for the best in the end, but the distance is maddening considering that this was all the Sister’s idea to begin with. 

Claire’s never been more relieved to be keeping a bedside vigil for someone, however. Sure, she’s still pissed to know how exactly he ended up in this position; Danny and Luke and Jessica had all explained what happened after emerging from the elevator that night. And even if Claire still doesn’t want to believe it, all of that is currently overshadowed by the fact that Matt is alive and lying in the bed in front of her. With every passing hour, his condition appears to be getting more stable. The mid-grade fever he’d had several days ago is gone and his complexion turns more pink from a gray pallor with each passing day. When he wakes on her fourth day sitting by his side, monitoring his vitals and holding his hand in an attempt to anchor him back to reality, Claire almost can’t believe what’s happening.

Her nightmares used to consist of Matt suffering alone, in some featureless alley or dark corner of the city with no one to call and no way of getting help. She knows now that wouldn’t be the worst fate for him, though. At least not as far as she’s concerned. To have him within arm’s reach and to have to watch his life fading from his body with nothing she can do— that would truly be torture. Thankfully it is not the reality with which she is being presented, but she can’t explain the number of times she has imagined that outcome in the last ninety-six hours. And perhaps that’s what finally brings her to tears when a frantic flurry of movement and a vice-like grip around her wrist shakes her out of the waking nightmare she is playing on the inside of her eyelids in a moment of weakness.

“Elektra! What— wh-where?” Matt gasps in a rough, broken voice as his hand closes around her wrist. 

Claire can’t keep the tears from streaking down her cheeks as she reaches for his face with her free hand, trying to ground him with her touch. “Breathe. You're okay. You’re in the orphanage. St. Agnes’ at Clinton Church. But I’m sorry, she wasn’t with you when they foun— “

She can’t finish her thought before Matt is sitting up, frantic and reaching for her, face a mix of relief and confusion. “Claire? What ... what are you doing here?” he rasps as he pulls her closer to map the lines and planes of her face with his fingers. The gesture is achingly familiar, so much so that her heart fractures under the weight, causing her to let out a sob. In the last several weeks she'd struggled through the initial stages of grieving for him, wanting to deny any reality in which he was not alive but believing in her logical mind that there was no other outcome given the circumstances. And then she'd come here and spent the last several days trying to adjust to the fact that he _wasn't_ dead after all. Since she allowed herself to hold that thought in her head and know it as true, she's imagined this moment so many times that she feels she might burst out of her skin for how relieved and elated it makes to know it's finally happening.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m very glad I am,” she whispers around wavering breaths. Another round of tears fall, trickling over his fingers where they still hold her face.

Expression solemn and reverent, his hands slide around to gently grip the back of her head and he brings her even closer as he leans forward to touch his forehead to hers. They stay like that for a moment, until her tears stop and her breathing evens, synchronizing with his. 

Time seems to pause for them for a moment as she is consumed with a flood of relief and joy and a handful of looping thoughts. _He’s back. He’s safe. He’s with her._ The thoughts continue to cycle through her mind with each inhale they share. And with them, the realization that if a higher power of some kind with some kind of grand plan had anything to do with their reunion, she will reconsider her opinion of such a concept. Maybe she'll even broach the subject with Matt later, when he's feeling up to it. And after she's given him a bit of a talking to related to his choices about refusing to leave with the others.

As if on cue, Matt leans back, face twisted into a concerned frown. "Where are the others? Is everyone else alright?"

Claire shakes her head and sighs. "Everyone else is fine. They were just worried about you. Everyone thought you died, Matt." 

Chagrined, he hangs his head and drops his hands from where he'd settled them around her neck. "I'm sorry. I shouldn—"

She puts a finger under his chin to lift his face to hers. "Hey, we don't have to get into that right now. But know that you were missed, okay. And I don't want to hear about you pulling that kind of stunt again." There's a flinty edge to her voice that she uses to cover the waver sneaking through with the tears which are once again threatening to fall, but he notices and gives her a sad smile. 

"Deal," he says as he brushes one rogue drop as it glides down her cheek. 

As his fingers graze her skin, the tension between them intensifies with all of the weight of the loss that she is still carrying from the last several weeks. But before she bends under the force of it, she closes her eyes and exhales, reaching for humor to break the moment. After all, they'll have plenty of time to address the heavy stuff later on, now that he's awake and alive and fine. Somehow.

"This settles it, though." 

"What?" he asks, expression curious and sincere in that adorable way that only he can pull off.

"You are officially a saint at this point, what with the resurrection from the dead and everything. Hare-shirt or no."

Matt rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Not gonna let that go, huh? Not even when I'm this near to death?"

Claire pushes at his shoulder. "You're gonna be fine. Thanks to the sisters. And me. And you should know by now that I am absolutely _not_ going to let it go ... St. Matthew."

Despite himself, he scoffs at her and Claire smirks at him. As she leans down to kiss him, she decides she's more than willing to believe that there's some kind of higher power or fate at work in their lives, and whoever they are, they have a ridiculous sense of humor. And that, at least, she can get behind. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem Fate by Clairel Estevez
> 
> Your name fits in my heart-  
> In such a way.  
> You are destined to be the body,  
> For the story of my life.


End file.
